Lighter Skies
by LanaBerrydon
Summary: AU WWII. His home bombed, his father killed, and his life now a wreck, Arthur Kirkland is forced to flee to London to survive. Alfred Jones, a wounded American soldier working at a homeless shelter to recover, happens upon the mourning man and feels it is his duty to help him smile again.
1. Chapter 1

He was a lord's son, able to get anything he wanted. To simply make a list of wished, of wants, or disguised needs, and there would be little time before he received them all. There was never a time where he was told 'no', not by his father nor anyone.

But that was just the way Arthur Kirkland had been brought up. Alone with his father, in a nice house a mile away from a small village, they did not need to bother themselves with other people. Therefore, Arthur wasn't very sociable, continuing to swear in another's presence, never holding back what it was he thought of a person.

So, when a terrible occurrence took fold and he was forced to socialize to survive, it was more than he had bargained for, a risk that he later wondered was regrettable or not.

It was late one night, as the moon hung high in the darkened sky, surrounded by the twinkling stars, when he decided to take a small stroll through the forest with the notebook he cherished, one he had been carrying since his childhood. It was passed down to him by his deceased mother and held all her secrets. But years of wear and tear, of spilled drinks and crumpling grips, the notebook was hardly in great condition. No more could he decipher her scrawls, now just weak pencil marks, but he kept them close, adding his own stories to it.

Without paying much attention, time drifted on much too fast for him. Distance sped away with time, hand in hand, and once he finally noticed it, he was unable to catch up and found himself lost.

He was small between tall unfamiliar trees, the moon hidden to him, its light barely reaching him. He began to get a little frightened, aware that his father was probably looking for him now. He spent an hour searching in every direction, but he could feel that his destination was getting further and further away from him.

But this fear was weak compared to the terror that was to come. As a faint humming sound hit his ears, accompanied by a vibration that tore through the air, his heart thumped hard against his ribs, for he knew what was arriving in that vast sky. The German planes flew overhead; their lights flickered, like a beat. There were not many of them, only three, but their threat was very much alive, burning within his heart. He knew their direction, instinct screaming at him that they were aiming for where he had come from, and his mind submerged into the pit of the darkest fear. He ran towards where they vanished over the tips of the trees.

They left with a faint rumble, slowly dying down, in the night.

He halted, leaning against a tree, clutching his notebook tightly in his grip, holding it to his chest with all of his might as he heard the first bomb descend. The alarm wailed its first cry, howling through the chilly air.

He closed his eyes, his breath held in the bottom of his throat. Another bomb fell and he could almost point to where it was as it fell. The two seemed to take hours to reach the earth, whistling through the emptiness. Then came the waves of hot, powerful air, curling over him as they collided with their target.

He knelt down by the tree, pulling his knees to him and gasped. There was nothing he could do now but wait, and hope that his perfect home, his isolated life, was still intact.

Only after a couple more, the attackers were finished and the planes left, satisfied. Arthur, fearful of what he would find, continued to stay in his ball and he tightly held his knees as if his life depended on it.

As the dawn broke over the horizon, chasing away the shadows of the night, Arthur finally returned to reality, uncurling himself and standing up hesitantly. The notebook, still within his grasp, seemed to weigh heavier now as he realised that had something gone wrong, had his haven, his safety, his home been destroyed, it was the only possession he had left. The only thing that held any meaning.

It took long hours of heaving himself up hills, of dreading each second that came and by, but he finally reached familiar landmarks.

The first thing he saw was the village, now crumbling down to the very foundations. Pits burned here and there, releasing plumes of black smoke that reached towards the array of colours above. A place that was so often filled to the brim with smiling people, now lonely with not a single living being anywhere near the crushed ruins.

He continued on with a small hope that just maybe his home remained untouched. Not one emotion filled his face, but a battle that raged between several. If he found himself nearing tears, he'd push them away and adopt a rage-filled expression, then to a small smile when he saw that the path to his home seemed to be as he remembered.

However, once he reached the once familiar gates, he realised his hope had just been too strong. It plummeted so quickly. The gates, ones he had passed through so often in his life, were ripped apart, destroyed by the shock wave emitted from the bombs. Beyond that, his heart almost stopped at the scene. Where his home had once been was replaced by a burning crater, a few scattered pieces of rubble and possessions far away.

It was gone. Everything. All that he had grown up with. It was gone and he could do nothing. His father had left him, just as his mother had.

Arthur felt the first tear drop from his eyes. He quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand, cursing himself for showing such weakness. His father, dead… But he could do nothing now. He needed to think of what he would do next. Now that his home was gone, now that he had nothing.

No matter how hard he tried to hold back his lingering tears, they fell. He covered his face with his hands, sobbing silently, alone to grovel in his grief.

* * *

Later that day, he found himself on a bus, filled with the last survivors of the bombing. Those who had hidden as soon as the warning bell had signalled had dragged their way back up into the world, and they greeted him like a friend. Now, despite never speaking before, it was their experience, their desperate memory, that had tied them together.

Arthur watched the landscape outside the window. He had attempted to search for some possessions at his house, digging his way through the remains of former walls and ceilings until his hands were bruised and bloody. But he found nothing worth keeping. No money, no food, not even a simple photograph he could have taken with him. He had feared he may find his father's body, or that of the employees who looked after the house, but there was not even a limb to be found. If the bomb had landed right above their house, there would be no bodies left to search for. And he had almost ended up like that.

A young woman with a little boy sat next to him, smiling sadly towards his still frame. He gave a small one back, but even he could feel it was empty. He had not cried since those few tears, nor had he said anything since the last words he had spoken to his father before his walk. He felt numb, barely awake to the world for what it had done to him. He wished this war would end, that it had never started, that the Germans had not been flying over the village that night. But it had happened, and as he kept reminding himself, he could do nothing about it now.

The bus was on its way to London, the country capital, picking up any stray survivors along the way. It was true that it was the main target for bombing, but there were more places to hide there, better places to shelter, better bunkers and better hospitals to be treated in should something unfortunately happen. It was also better than staying in the burning remains of the past.

Arthur was scared. He did not know how to speak to people, and has always left it up to his father to do so. At their parties, their balls, Arthur barely spoke a word to anyone. His father had always been the one to entertain guests with conversation. But he was alone now, forced to do something to survive, even speaking to people. His status meant nothing in this situation, now that he had not a penny to his name. The bus was free, but he knew he would need money once he arrived in the great city. How else was he to survive? Alone, to boot.

He rested his head, shooing away the thoughts that clouded his mind. He no longer wished to dwell on them, sending only sadness from their company. He needed sleep and this would be the best chance to catch it. He thought it would take a long time to fall into slumber. However, it took but a touch as his head rested lightly on the window, and no more. Sleep took over. Not a dream visited, nor a nightmare. His sleep was black, dark, with nothing but shadows to occupy his tired mind. Not even his father visited to assure him things would work out.

By the time he had woken up, people were getting off. He followed, searching the outline of his notebook under his jacket with his fingertips. As he reached the bottom of the steps, he was welcomed by a large, plain, boring white building. He took it in and sighed, realising that this was where he would spend his days now, where his life would change so much. It was a homeless shelter, turned bunker for the survivors of bombed towns, the biggest in the country. It provided beds and food, and that was about it.

No one here had possession or nothing significant anyway, just like Arthur. He was now among people who had been through the same thing, all ripped from their comfortable lives, mourning losses. What he was once would mean nothing. He was a nameless man, unknown to them all, as they were to him.

Even knowing this, he couldn't help feeling the loneliness that grew within his core. No one wore smiles here, for there was no reason, and he may as well have been alone.

Young mothers ushered their children in, watching the skies with fear. Lonely adults dragged their feet in, losing hope as they glanced upon the doors. Older men and women trudged through, giving small warming smiles to the young, encouraging them, or attempting to. But they too did not have much hope.

One by one, the bus emptied into the street. Some chose to go another way, avoiding the shelter and the sadness that would inevitably lurk within. They would search for something else. Arthur followed the families through the door. He was a stranger to this city, not used to the massive crowds that engulfed him like a monster would. But he paid no attention, aware that he might start panicking if he returned to that thought too often.

Inside was filled with tables, none matching, and endless rows of hungry people as they sat and ate their way through the plain food of bread and soup. At the far end was the kitchen, where workers flung the slop on to the plates to be carried away and eaten. Few were giving any emotion. But as soon as a child offered their tray, there were smiles all around.

By that was a door. He wondered what was behind there. Probably the rooms for these people to sleep. Several of the ones he had travelled with made their way to that door, too tired to ask for the food to fill their empty stomachs.

It was a sad place, where children clung to the toys they had managed to save, keeping close to their parents' side or to each other if they had no one. There was no play, no board games, no jokes to pass around. There was barely any talk among the strangers, as if they were blocked off in their own little worlds of depression. Even the workers kept their words to a minimum, scared that they might say the wrong thing to these poor souls and hurt them in their already-fragile state.

Arthur sighed, something he was doing often now. He'd need to get a job, earn enough money to move out of this desperate hole of a place. How could things get any better if he was continuously surrounded by broken purposes?

He'd had enough sleep and he wasn't hungry, so he sat in the seat closest to the corner and rested his head on the table. So was this what his life had become? A midnight stroll, getting lose, and then his home reduced to nothing but a crater? His father, dead, his body never to be found. He would never have a proper burial, no funeral, no one to visit an empty grave now that most of who knew him were either dead, on the run or hiding. It would be a long while before anyone knew of his passing, or that Arthur was gone.

He'd never see anyone he had once known again. Those slightly familiar faces that had travelled with him were almost strangers, and they would want nothing to do with him. Soon, they'd move on and he'd be left alone. He cursed this war, cursed the fighters, cursed everyone, throwing profanities in his mind at the world. But he could do nothing. And he knew it could have been so much worse.

"Hey, you alright there?"

He couldn't help but feel this was all maybe a dream. What if he woke up? He could be back in the library at home, and his father would be calling once the cook finished preparing the food. There would be a book in his lap, or on the floor with its spine upwards after falling off. Maybe a maid might be cleaning the bookcases beside him and would give him a greeting in a smile, then he would be off to fill his belly. His father would be there, on one side of the long table, directing him to sit opposite and enjoy the fresh meal, with perhaps a scone for dessert. It would be a small meal, limited due to the low income of food to the village, but it would be enough to satisfy.

"Hey, you, I'm talking to you."

But no. He would not wake up. This was his reality now.

He felt a hand upon his head. He jerked upwards, his own hand instinctively curling around the book beneath his jacket so that it would not slip out. The hand on his head was gone, withdrawn back to the body of the man who had wrenched him from his thoughts.

It was a man a little younger than he, probably just out of his teenage years. He wore the white apron of the workers, but he had this bright grin, from ear to ear, and his blue eyes shone through the lenses of his glasses as they pierced Arthur.

The stranger gave a wave and greeted loudly, "You're new here!"

Arthur grumbled, resting his head back on the cool surface. "Not under the most fortunate of circumstances," he snapped, hoping to put the young man off and leave him alone.

He was much too cheery for Arthur's liking. It was true that he had been criticising the feel of defeat that hung in the air here, but it was with good reason. To be so happy, to grin like that, here of all places – he couldn't help but feel it was incredibly insensitive. Had this idiot not realised that he had just come from a devastating situation? As all others here had done. He was new here, as he so put it, because he had just arrived from a life changing nightmare. He was not about to grin it off, like some sort of fool and laugh about it. Nor talk about it, for that matter.

"I'm sure not," the arrival pushed. "But you got people here to help, right?" He sat down opposite Arthur, resting his own arms so that they were only mere inches away from his own. "Might be better to talk about what you been through."

Arthur glared up at him. It was precisely this type of person that got on his nerves. He was never good at talking to people. He's always say what he wanted, ignored the police greetings, but he was not insensitive. He knew that certain subjects were crossing the line. For once, he may have found someone who was worse than him with social situations.

Seeking to change the subject, he asked, "You're not from Britain, are you?"

The other man's eyes widened and he shook his head vigorously, obviously delighted that Arthur had shown an interest. Not that he had, of course, but he didn't correct him for fear of being dragged into multiple conversations, one after the other.

"Nope! I'm from good old America across the pond." He crossed his arms before his chest, flashing his teeth in the biggest grin Arthur had ever seen. "Joined the army a while back and was stationed in France, to help the French Resistance. Well, the German soldiers found out, with me not speaking French and all, and gave me a nice present to welcome me. They would have captured and killed me too had it not been for my supreme escaping skills" He pushed down his black top and the strap of the apron, over his right shoulder to show a dirty bandage, stained from grubby finger-marks, bits of crumbs from who knew what and spots of blood. "They shot me twice there. One bullet just scraped by, but the other one embedded into my skin. Hurt like hell." He tugged his top up again, hiding the wound. "They sent me here to be treated. They ain't fully healed yet, but I wanted to help people somehow. So they gave me this job, to help homeless people, survivors and the hurt. It's not exactly fighting to end the war, but it's some sort of heroic deed, eh?" He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "If I wanted your like story, I would have just asked."

"I like telling people stories. This is a story I can go back to tell my family. Can't wait to see their faces when I tell them I got shot at! Twice, too! Mom's not gonna to be too happy, though."

Arthur clenched his hands together in a fist as he gritted his teeth together painfully. Just as he had thought, this idiot American was insensitive enough to not realise that speaking of family in this kind of place was rude and hurtful. But Arthur said nothing for once. He silently judged, steaming with anger, cursing this American.

"I'm Alfred, by the way," he continued, not at all deterred by the lack of response to his conversation. "Alfred F. Jones. Your name?"

Arthur glanced up at him and said nothing. But the American waited patiently, holding out his hand to shake. As Arthur turned his glance to a glare, the American blinked and remained still. Feeling completely drained of energy, he rested his head again, noting that this Alfred fellow was just a waste of his time.

"I can show you around if you want to, darling."

Arthur snapped his head up, glaring red hot daggers into the twat before him. "Darling?" he hissed.

Alfred rubbed the back of his neck again, his mouth set to a little frown. "Yeah. You didn't give me a name, so what else am I supposed to call you?"

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply, willing himself not to punch the living daylights out of this annoying American. "Arthur," he muttered, much too quietly for the other to hear.

"Huh?"

"Arthur," he repeated angrily. "My name. Arthur Kirkland." He could have sworn that the American had planned this. Hadn't he? Had he gone about that just to get his name? He really was too much to handle, more annoying than he had originally thought. "Don't call me 'darling' again."

That stupid grin was back in all its glory, shining through like a beacon that would drive you to the cliffs. "Okay! I can show you around, Arthur."

"No, thank you. I'm fine by myself."

A kitchen worker called for the youth, ordering him to continue with the duty. Alfred gave one last look at Arthur, never failing with that smile, and spoke his goodbyes, promising that he would see him again soon. Arthur didn't reply, but watched as he rushed back to his post in the kitchen. For a while then, he caught himself glancing at the young one as he fed those who came up to him.

A little girl, carrying a small dirtied doll, skipped up to him, her pony tail and long dress bobbing with each step. Alfred knelt down and began to talk to her. From this distance, Arthur could not hear what they were saying, but his green eyes were glues to the little girl, who smiled happily and gave her doll for Alfred to see.

Alfred looked over her shoulder, catching Arthur's eye and held it for a few seconds. Arthur then looked away, unsure of why he had been watching in the first place. He decided that he wanted out of here as soon as he could. He could not handle people like that. There had been plenty before he had met, at the parties and the balls his father held at their house. But they were not too loud, nor were they in other's faces. Alfred was, and it made Arthur feel uncomfortable. People like him left an odd stirring feeling in the pit of his stomach and he didn't like it one bit.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur was careful. The notebook, the one that held his life story, would mean little to someone else but he still did not want anyone to find it. He hid it beneath the bed, between the mattress and the beams that held it. He had been thinking of under the pillow as a suitable place, but it would be much too easy to find.

"Whatcha doing?"

He cursed, narrowing his eyes in a glare before he even stood up from the floor. Slowly, he turned on his heels and glued his eyes to the interfering fool.

As expected, following that heavy American accent, Alfred stood there, a beam on his face. If he could feel the hatred that came off of Arthur in waves, he didn't say anything, nor did he make any indication of it. In fact, his smile seemed to just widen, and he made this small 'hee' sound as his eyes connected with green.

"What do you want?" Arthur snapped, avoiding his question. He hoped that the American hadn't seen what he had hid. It struck Arthur that this fellow might just be the type to go snooping around when he found something curious.

"I have a break at the moment, so I came to see you."

The Englishman pushed passed him. "Should I feel honoured?" As he glanced back at the young one, Alfred cast his eyes away from where they had been rooted to the bottom of the bed. Arthur's heart leapt as he clenched his fists and narrowed his eyes further. If he dared to do anything… Well, he wasn't sure what he would do to the American, but he would do what he could to protect his treasure.

"Aw, nah, you don't have to," Alfred chuckled, rushing to Arthur's side.

"Right." Arthur turned away and headed for the canteen door. He tried to ignore the annoying thumps of feet behind him, eagerly following him closely, but as whistle of a song interrupted the silent air, he gritted his teeth and hissed, "So you've seen me. Must you stay with me?"

The whistling stopped, and a short quiet answered him. Before it drew out too long, Alfred replied, "Well won't it be weird if I just looked at you and left? I came to say hi!"

"And you haven't even said that yet," the Englishman sighed. He pushed the door open and was greeted by dozens of hungry faces as they pigged into their rare meals.

"You want some food? I can get you some," Alfred offered, moving to his side and waving at where the other workers cooked.

"No, thank you. I thought you said you were on your break?" Alfred simply shrugged and quirked up the corner of his lip. "Also, I had planned on exploring the city today. I don't wish to hang about this place longer than I must."

He jumped in front of Arthur, making him flinch in surprise. "I can show ya!" Alfred gasped excitedly, much like a child given the chance to explore a toy shop. "I know all the best places."

"I'm sure your break isn't that long."

"I can ask to have the rest of the day off." He raised his hands and gave the thumbs up as if he would soon gain victory in the hardest of tasks. "I've worked hard even when I wasn't needed, so they can give me a few hours off."

"No thanks."

Alfred frowned, his arms drooping to his sides. His eyebrows rose sadly and he wobbled his lips as he watered his eyes purposely. "But why?" he whimpered in the smallest and most pathetic voice he could muster.

Arthur turned away. As much as he would have liked to look into his bright blue eyes and show how unaffected he was by that face, he couldn't. He found that it was indeed affecting him, if only slightly, and he would not give the fool the satisfaction of knowing that.

"Because I want to be alone," he admitted. He watched the people in the hall, looking for anything that might tear his mind away from the way it was drifting.

A little boy sat at a table, staring at the cold bread beside the watery soup in his bowl. He pushed it away and his father scolded him, pushing it back. The little boy said something, crossed his arms before his chest and pursed his lips in a pout. The father sighed, raised his hand and ruffled his son's hair. He whispered something calmly, a small smile playing on his lips. The little boy mimicked that smile and raised his spoon to bring the little soup he had in his spoon to his mouth.

Arthur felt his chest tighten and he let out a shaky breath. Too late, he thought to himself. His mind was already going back to the memories of his own time as a child.

He had been so picky with food, pushing it away from him as the child before him had. His father, as kind as he was, had ruffled his mop of blond hair and asked him nicely to finish, never yelling, never raising his voice at all. Their cook had gone through a lot to make such nice food for him, his father had said. We could not let it go to waste.

But Arthur had been a troubling child. It had taken a long time for him to listen to his father and finish his food, and then he'd be in a bad mood for the rest of the day, retreating to the lounge where he would listen to the radio or read.

He'd gotten better with age, eating almost everything that had been placed before him. Now, he could eat probably anything, whether it was from slop to the most extravagant meal in all the world. Food was not a passion for him. It was simply a thing to survive on.

"Hey, Art, you alright?"

He was suddenly brought back to reality, crashing hard in on himself. He glanced at the hand that shook before his gaze and he followed it back to who it belonged. Alfred creased his eyebrows in worry, his smile gone, replaced by a confused frown.

Arthur shook his head. "Yes, I'm fine, Alfred," he whispered. Of all the times to be lost in memories, why in front of the American? He glared at Alfred and corrected, "My name is Arthur, not 'Art'"

Alfred narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but must have thought better than to ask the grumpy Englishman. The smile was back, though not as gleaming as it had been minutes before. He gently circled his hand around Arthur's arm and pulling him as he rushed towards the shelter door.

"Let go of me!" Arthur demanded, attempting to tug his arm back.

Alfred shook his head and threw open the doors, swimming in the suns rays that had been hidden from the shelter. "No, we're going out, like we planned. I'm going to show you all the best spots!"

"Like we planned? We planned no such thing!"

But Alfred didn't seem to be listening. He ripped the apron from his body with his free hand and threw it beside the door, muttering, "I'll come back for it later."

"Wait, you haven't even asked for the break yet!" Arthur gave, hoping that maybe it would be enough for Alfred to go back so that he could sneak quietly away.

But the man holding him rolled his eyes and replied, "Small details. I'll tell them later!" And without further ado, he began to drag Arthur down the street, not stopping even as Arthur thrashed against his hold.

"By then it will be too late!" Arthur couldn't believe what was happening. One single minute it had taken for a bomb to destroy his world, to take away everything he had ever known and leave without justice. But not only that, only a few hours later, he met this American, who proceeded to turn the little world of reality he had been growing since the disaster upside down. Alfred was like a bomb himself, in a way. The comparison seemed fitting for him. However, Alfred hadn't left. He stayed and continued to toss around Arthur's world, moving it around to his liking with that grin of his and those bright blue eyes.

"Small details!" he repeated, chuckling as he manoeuvred them through the fast growing crowd. He grabbed Arthur tightly, flinging him from side to side, bringing him ever so closely to slamming into an innocent walker. He himself made a game out of it, to see how close he could get to someone without touching them. Many turned and exclaimed at him, shaking their fist in the air.

"What are you doing?" Arthur squeaked as he came close to coming face to face with an old gentleman, wobbling his way slowly. Arthur apologised quickly before he was pulled away by the American. His question was lost in the other's loud bellowing laughter. Arthur was scared to death that if Alfred lost control at the speed they were jumping through the crowd, they'd end up taking down dozens of people before they crashed to the floor. But Alfred was having the time of his life, enjoying this far too much and did not let his grip on Arthur go.

They finally reached the other side of the crowd after what seemed like hours to Arthur. Alfred abruptly stopped and circled his arms around the other in an embrace to also stop him. Arthur's head spun, his breath came out in gasps. Once his bearings had returned, he pushed himself away from Alfred and placed his hand on his forehead.

Maybe, some little part of him, buried deep down inside of him, admitted that there was _something_ a little fun about that. But he wouldn't let Alfred know that and he didn't let it show on his face. It was almost completely overtaken by the shock of it all as it was anyway.

"That was awesome!" Alfred shouted out, raising his arms above his head.

Arthur shook his head, trying to find something witty to come up with as a retort, but words failed him.

At his silence, Alfred claimed Arthur's arm again and returned to dragging him along the street, but at a much slower pace. "There's so much to see," he began. "Of course, you've probably heard of all the touristy places, being English and whatever. But they're boring once you seen them more than once."

Arthur wasn't sure whether or not to take offense at something as precious as his country's treasures being called 'boring', but he kept his mouth shut. He could think of many things to say back, such as that America's own lack of history resulted in an equal lack of landmarks and treasures, but he admitted he didn't know much of the other country beyond what he had read in books. Alfred would most likely argue with a valid point, such as a valuable treasure that Arthur had never heard of. He would much rather stay silent and give up an argument than to lose one.

"So we can quickly get those done and get down to the real fun!" he continued. "Like, there's this really neat river-"

"River Thames," Arthur corrected. Really, and Alfred claimed to know a lot of this city?

"Yeah, that one. Anyway, it's real nice to go see that at night. It just sparkles!" He stopped suddenly, frowning up at the cloudy sky and said quietly, "But it would be nice to see the stars. The smoke and the lights of London make it really difficult to see them."

"Really?" Arthur asked, following his lead and looking up at the sky. He frowned too, a deeper one. "Where I lived, I could see the stars every night."

"Yeah. Something about cities. It scares them away, man," he laughed. He looked down at Arthur, his smile returning. "You must have seen a lot of stars in your time."

Arthur nodded. "I lived in the country." He stopped himself, clearing his head before he said anything else to the young American. He walked forwards, bowing his head and allowing his messy fringe to fall before his eyes. "We must get going if you are to show me everything you want to."

"Yeah, dude, totally." But Alfred's voice was filled with hesitation as he watched the lonely figure before him, skulking away with the saddest frown he had seen before. It passed through his mind, the question of what happened to that house in the country, underneath the blanket of starts. But he would not push the older man, for fear of never being able to see a happy expression on his face. He jogged back to his side. "Is there anything you want to see? Let me guess, you a history nut? Want to look around all the history before we get to the real stuff?"

Arthur shook his head. He was interested in things like that. He had always wanted to see things such as Big Ben, the palace and all that he had read in books or heard on the radio, but if he had to have a bored American trailing behind him, complaining like a child and asking when they were to finish, he saw no point. "No, we can do whatever it is that you want to do," he replied. "I can look at the 'boring' things another time."

Alfred punched the air. "Yeah, dude! I can show you the best bars, the parks, all the good stuff that should really get the attention! Come on, I'll show you my favourite park first!"

Arthur, no longer struggling against the hold, allowed Alfred to drag him along the street again. Despite their speed, it really did take too long to finally reach their destination. Alfred had assured him that he visited the park often enough, retreating there in both day and night whenever he felt like a walk, but too often he seemed to get lost in the labyrinth of London. He would turn and smile awkwardly at Arthur apologising for getting lost yet again, then proceed to do it again after another few minutes. But Arthur had shrugged it off as he hadn't expected much more than that.

"There it is!" Alfred shouted out gleefully. As soon as his feet touched the green soft grass, he threw himself onto the floor and collapsed into a fit of laughter. He gazed up at Arthur and waved at him. "Come on!" He patted the grass beside him. "Join me."

Arthur slowly sat down, pulling his legs to his chest. He'd barely been in this city for long and he had already begun to miss something as simple as grass. He ran his hands through on either side of him, watching as the blades disappeared under his fingers.

"This is the Regent's Park, designed in 1811 by architect John Nash," Arthur muttered to himself, imagining the page that he had read that from. A guide to London, it had been, filled with information on everything there was here. He had read it cover to cover, more than once, memorizing whatever he could. This park, with its beautiful rose gardens, had been one of the things that had jumped out at him. It was even more beautiful than he had imagined it. It might not have been in the best of situations, as he had wanted to see it with his father, but it was nice all the same.

"Um, yeah, man," Alfred uttered. "That's exactly what it is." But it was clear by not only his voice, but his face that he had no idea what Arthur had been saying. It was just another park to him, one that he had held as a favourite. Why would he need to know facts to enjoy a place?

Arthur looked around himself, at the trees that towered over them, casting their shadows upon the resting families that tried to forget about reality for a while. To think something so beautiful could hide between the cold buildings of society was truly amazing.

"You look happy," Alfred commented.

Arthur's eyes snapped to the younger man who had pushed himself up to gaze at him. Arthur hadn't been smiling, but his eyebrows had not been as creased as they usually were and his frown had turned to a thin line.

"Well, happier than you usually do," he teased.

Arthur grabbed the closest rock he could find and hurled it at Alfred. But the other just avoided it as if it meant nothing. He laughed at Arthur, jumping up onto his feet and dancing around, continuing to avoid the rain of rocks that Arthur showed no halt in throwing.

"I can be happy!" Arthur retaliated. But before long he had run out of rocks and he scoured the grass for anything else he could throw. Alfred jumped at him, catching Arthur's hands in his and pinned them to the ground. "Hey, get off of me!"

Alfred, still laughing until his ribs began to ache, replied, "Not until you stop throwing rocks at me!" Once Arthur stopped trying to regain his hands and glared up at Alfred. "Good. I'm sure you can be happy, but I haven't seen you smile."

"I don't have to smile to show I'm happy," the Englishman grumbled.

"But I still want to see it! I'm sure it's real nice."

Arthur couldn't help but feel the spread of heat that grew over his cheeks. He turned his face so that the other couldn't see what must have been the most embarrassing situation he had ever been placed in. Blushing? It couldn't have been blushing. It must have just been the heat, despite the lack of nice weather.

"I don't know."

Alfred let go of his hands and grabbed his cheeks, hoisting them up in a fake smile. "See? It's beautiful!"

Arthur slapped his hands away, rubbing his sore cheeks. "How many times must I ask you to stop touching me?"

"Aw, but you're so touchable!"

"Are all Americans like you?"

At that, Alfred fell back onto the floor and laughed loudly, holding his stomach as if it pained him to do such a thing.

Arthur looked around. Others who had come to the park cast curious glances at the American, wondering if he was hurt, or why it was he was laughing so loudly. Arthur wished then he had been anywhere but here. As if anything could get more embarrassing than this! But Alfred didn't seem embarrassed at all. He continued until the laughter died in his throat, making it sore and croak out the last of his fit.

"What was so bloody funny?" Arthur demanded in a rushed whisper.

"Dude, yeah, Americans are like me. We enjoy life!" he answered loudly, wiping away a tear that had been clinging to the corner of his eye.

Arthur immediately stood up. "Well I'm terribly sorry that we can't enjoy life while we're terrified of being bombed!"

He was about to storm off when Alfred reached for him and grabbed his wrist gently, holding him there.

"No, that's not what I mean, man," Alfred assured behind him. "Sorry. I just meant that we're all pretty loud and energetic. We just see life differently from you, y'know?"

Without turning around, Arthur spat, "Oh? And how do you think we see life?"

"I dunno," the American replied carefully. "I just know how I see it, and I know it's different from the way you do. Like, I see that I gotta _live_ life. Make the most of it."

"Well, I see that I just have to survive it."

Arthur expected some kind of reply, like 'see? We see it differently!' or 'That's not a way to see life'. But there was only silence. The grip on his wrist tightened comfortingly, as if Alfred understood the meaning behind his words. This war had affected him in a way that changed his view on life, and it would most likely be changed forever. He would never be able to see it the way Alfred did. Make the most of life? Live without regrets? Those were just wishes, weren't they? Had his father made the most of life? Did he die without regrets?

A sigh came from his lips and he closed his eyes, the tension in his body slowly fading away. Soon, he just stood there, his arms drooping at his sides.

Alfred took this chance to finally speak, but it was not about their earlier conversation. He felt it was time to let that go before he truly pushed Arthur away into whatever it was he was trying to avoid. He asked, "Why don't you sit down and relax? The parks the best place for it!"

Arthur almost forgot all of his anger. He turned and sat down after pulling his arm out of Alfred's grip. Maybe he had reacted a bit too harshly. Alfred hadn't known where his mind would go on such a conversation. But the memories were just too raw, too soon, and he knew it would be too long before he recovered completely.

"Why don't you lie down? I sleep here sometimes."

Arthur gaped at him. "You sleep here? In public? Where anyone could steal from you?"

"I don't have anything worth stealing anyway. I leave that stuff back at the shelter." He leaned forwards, placed his hands on Arthur's shoulder and slowly began to push him down onto the grass. "Now quit fussing and relax!"

Arthur complied and lay down. Above him, the clouds rolled by slowly. A light breeze breathed by him, like little whispers floating through the air. The small sun light that managed to penetrate the grey clouds rested onto the park. Arthur closed his eyes, breathing deeply, feeling at rest for the first time in a long time. He heard a slight rustle and heat suddenly burned beside him. Alfred had lain down quietly, doing as he did, and he had to say that it was nice to finally have the American silent.

However, the silence did not stay for long, of course.

Arthur cried out as he felt something fall on to his face. He quickly sat up, looking around. Alfred grinned cheekily at him, taking his hand back as fast as he could before Arthur had the chance to grab him.

"Did you just hit me in the face?" Arthur gasped.

"You looked 'bout ready to fall asleep!"

"And what if I was?" Arthur stood up then, brushing off the grass and the dirt that had found its way onto his clothes. He figured that if he sat down again, Alfred would only get bored and he'd never get any rest.

Alfred followed him, standing up with his hands on his hips. "But we got loads to see! You can't sleep yet!"

This time, Arthur even stuck out his arm for Alfred to grab before he dragged him away somewhere else. He really didn't mind anymore. It would just be too much of a hassle is he had put up a fuss, knowing that the American would get what he wanted in the end anyway.

* * *

"From a park to a pub?" Arthur mumbled to himself as he stood in the street, gazing up at a small building, reeking of morning afternoon alcohol and booming with drunken laughter from the inside.

"Yeah. Dude, they have the best atmosphere," Alfred informed.

He pushed Arthur in before him. Arthur, reluctant to even step foot inside, froze in the doorway, watching as the few drunk men had begun to dance on any surface they could find, ranging from the table tops, the bar table and even on another drunk man who was lying on the floor, probably passed out. Those who were not drunk, maybe just a little tipsy or were only beginning their long line of alcohol consumption, clapped the dancers, encouraging their shenanigans. The workers who served the drinks had a dance of their own, stepping in between the bodies of men like ghosts wafting through the air, placed their drinks quietly onto the tables and returned to the bar without anyone noticing. The lights inside were dim, creating an eerie feel. But there were smiles all around, loud and drunken conversation and the rare fight that broke out were barely fights at all.

"What do ya want?" Alfred asked, sitting him down on one of the free tables. "I'll go get it for us!"

Arthur, who hadn't had much experience with alcohol, just shrugged his shoulder and replied, "I'll just have a beer."

Alfred frowned. "Seriously? That's no fun," he objected, but turned towards the bar all the same without another word.

Arthur looked around again. A few of the men here had watched him once he came in, but had moved back onto what had occupied their attentions before. Now, not a single pair of eyes even glanced in his direction. It had been different at the balls and parties he had attended at another's house, or even his own. With his status, eyes were never leaving him when in his presence. He could not make a single mistake without everyone in the room knowing. It was refreshing to finally do something without constantly being aware of judgmental wankers.

Alfred returned with two beers, placing them on the coasters already settled on the table. Arthur immediately grabbed his and brought it to his lips, taking a huge swig of it. He could already feel the warmth it brought as it crashed into his belly.

"Whoa, not so fast," Alfred quickly said, pushing the glass back onto the table before Arthur could get another sip. "You'll get way drunk if you keep at it like that! Don't want to get drunk this early in the day, do you?"

"It's my choice." But he didn't bring it back to his lips, and when he did a little later, he made sure to take small sips. He averted his eyes from the American, feeling stupid about being told to not get drunk by someone younger than him. He knew not to get drunk, he just didn't have much of a tolerance for alcohol. It always went much to quickly to his head.

Alfred gulped his down just as quickly, however, draining the glass before Arthur had had the chance to drink a quarter of his. The American laughed at his expression and explained, "I come here often. And where I lived back in the States, drinking was what you did to pass the time." He looked down at his glass, the foam of the beer still sliding down to reach the bottom. "But any more than this and I will be drunk. Can't have that happenin'!"

Arthur took another sip and placed his glass down, unsure on whether he wanted to finish it anymore. "How did you find these places?"

"I like explorin'," Alfred answered enthusiastically. "When I first got here, the staff at the shelter were fussin' me so much, they wouldn't let me out of there for days! By then my wounds weren't hurting anymore and I just wanted to get out. So I snuck out, got lost-"

"Well, that's completely unbelievable," Arthur interrupted sarcastically.

"Hey, don't cut in on my awesome story, dude," Alfred scolded, shaking his head. "Anyway, yeah, I got lost, and found a ton of awesome places! When I got back to the shelter, a whole day had been and gone. Spent the next day trying to find them all again, but there are still some I haven't found yet. Maybe I never will! They were kinda out of the way."

"How did you even find your way back to the shelter?"

Alfred chuckled and rubbed the back of his head. "They had to send someone to come find me once they realised I escaped. Took the person hours to find me, and it was here that they finally caught up to me. I was so drunk by then, and it was late at night. I was singing all the way back!"

Arthur snorted. "Why is it not hard to believe that?"

Alfred waved the question away with a gasp of mock offense. "I bet you're interesting when you're drunk," he remarked.

Arthur sighed and rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't know. I've never been fully aware of what I did when I was."

Alfred's eyes shone suddenly, and his smile widened even more, if that were possible. "Seriously? You've been drunk before? Aw, man! Wish I'd been there!"

Arthur just glared back, but there was no power behind it. He felt his energy fading from just being with this American. Was another person meant to have this effect on you? Or was it something that was just limited to the one before him right now? Or maybe all from America had the same power. He placed his head in his hand and quietly whispered to himself, "Remind me never to go to America. I might just perish there."

"Hasn't anyone ever told you what you're like when you're drunk?" Alfred continued, leaning closer and closer to Arthur. "Do you dance, like these men? Do you shout at people? Or do you do something really weird? Oh! Do you strip down?"

Arthur gasped. "Do I what? Of course not! I have more dignity than that, even when drunk! I would not do that."

"Did I hit the nail on the head?"

The Englishman slammed his hands onto the table, spilling a little of his drink. "You most certainly did not! I don't know what I do when drunk but I've always been clothed when I wake up." It was true he'd only been drunk a few times, a small amount of times compared to those who frequented pubs, and he was sure Alfred must have been drunk more so than he, but he had been assured by his father that he was not one of those insane drunks, and his clothes really had been on him once he woke up next morning.

But the American howled his laughter harder at Arthur's outburst and at his red face. It had been the reaction he was looking for, an energetic Arthur, one that seemed to be having a good time in his own way. It was one step closer to making the stiff and grumpy man smile.

* * *

_Thank you to everyone who followed, favourite and reviewed._


	3. Chapter 3

As the sun began to set gently, the two men ventured out of the pub, just slightly tipsy and giddy from the alcohol's effects. The streets grew quiet as the city people retreated back to their homes for the night. It would only be a little while before the night life burst into bloom, with loud men, screaming women, and not a sign of a child in sight. That was when London really came alive, under the cover of darkness in the late hours. It was when the fun began and when the secrets came to show themselves. It was a time to avoid, but also a time to join if you played it right.

Arthur found himself leaning lightly against Alfred's side, a little dizzy from the drink. Alfred happily held his weight, his arm around the Englishman's shoulder. He was sure that Arthur wasn't listening as he chatted to himself, muttering things about random topics that might have swam through his head at the time. But he didn't care. He wasn't really listening to himself either.

As the sun made its last mark in the sky, he stopped and smiled down at Arthur. "Hey, now I can show ya the river at night!" He gripped the smaller one tightly and walked a little faster, though not as the speed he would have liked. Arthur didn't look up to walking much faster than snail speed at that moment.

"You're going to love it," he said. "The city's got its own kind of beauty, ya know. It's like its own world!" Arthur grumbled to let him know he was listening. "I found it not long ago. It doesn't look as awesome in the day though."

A light wind whistled in, rushing through their hair. Arthur glanced up at the excited American, who swung his free arm by his side very animatedly as he retold the story of how he had stumbled upon the river, quite literally, almost falling in. His face seemed to shine in the low light of the night lamps and his blue eyes sparkled with such intensity that Arthur almost felt as if it was a sin to look away from them. But they were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, and that was what made him look away.

He would have loved to have those eyes. All he had was a moss green colour, clear under the bushy eyebrows that he hid beneath his low fringe. They were so unlike his father's, who had chocolaty brown, so warm and kind, and his mother with her bright green, so calm and happy. He had a mix of the two, and he didn't like it. He had always noticed the eyes of a person before anything else, and maybe it was Alfred's eyes that had spurred the hatred inside him before anything else. Jealousy? Was that what he felt? No, it couldn't be. How could he be jealous of _eyes_?

"It's so pretty," Alfred whispered in awe.

Arthur's head snapped up, fear pooling in the pit of his stomach as he wondered if he had spoken his thoughts aloud. But Alfred's perfect eyes were not on him, but scanning the area all around.

"London is really pretty in the night," he elaborated at Arthur's confused glance. "I know I've seen it so many times before, but it just gets me every time!" He gave a face-splitting smile. "And the river is so close now! If you listen carefully, you can hear the water running."

Arthur rolled his eyes.

They arrived on the bank of the river Thames just as the moon began to shine its gorgeous rays. Alfred wasted no time in pulling Arthur to sit down on the bank closely to him. Arthur stumbled but complied and watched as the river rippled in the cool night breeze. Dragonflies flitted across the water, going by so quickly that Arthur had to strain to watch them. The moon's reflection waved in the water, a white circle amongst the dark and murky surface. No stars surrounded it, not as Arthur was used to, but seeing the moon by itself seemed just as beautiful, that it was able to still shine through the pollution of the light of the big city.

His lip curled up a little as he gave a weak form of a smile. In his own mind, it was not a smile. But he noticed Alfred watching with his own beaming grin, his eyes wide as he held his breath.

The small smile disappeared from Arthur's lips. He asked, "What?" It was a little harsher than he had hoped it would come out and he wished he could take it back, but the look on the American's face did not falter.

"You were so close," Alfred replied quietly. "Just a little more and I'm sure you would have been smilin'!"

Arthur crossed his arms before his chest and looked away from the younger man to watch the water before him. It calmed him greatly, more than he would like to admit. He almost felt all of his worries, his pain, his weaknesses flow downstream. It even made him a little happy, but the strong gaze that he felt from Alfred denied him the smile he might have been close to showing.

"Bet it's going to be one hella awesome smile once I see it," Alfred chuckled. "Beautiful too!"

Arthur turned his face away so that Alfred couldn't see the blush that so shamefully formed on his cheeks. But the American wouldn't let him have his minute to let the blush fade. Alfred grabbed his shoulders and spun him around so quickly that he had had no time to ready himself or hide his face. He sat face to face with Alfred, his blush deepening and his shame growing more and more by each second. Alfred's blue eyes widened and he was struck speechless by it. Arthur, feeling embarrassed, pushed off Alfred's hands and turned away again, willing the red of his face to leave, just as his dignity had.

For a long minute, Alfred said nothing, but continued to stare at the back of the Englishman's head. Arthur wondered what it was that was going through his mind at that moment, whether he felt disgusted by Arthur now and leave him, cursing him, or if he would say nothing for the rest of the night.

But had Alfred thought anything of his situation, it was gone now, pushed down as he leaned forwards and placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder.

He announced cheerfully, "Look! There are ducks on the water!"

Arthur leaned back to look as the ducks swam across the surface, giving their last quacks and their last baths before they settled down on the opposite bank in their nests, ready to sleep until the rise of the sun for the next day. He watched as they fell into their slumber, then turned a little to glance at Alfred. Alfred's gaze was set on the shimmering water, but he turned to look at Arthur as he felt his gaze. He gave a smile, a much gentler one than he normally gave, and it warmed the core deep within Arthur. He wasn't sure what that smile meant, or what Alfred was trying to achieve with giving it, but it brought the blush back with full force. Why? Why was he, a grown man, blushing over this American youngster? Alright, maybe there wasn't that much of a gap, but he was still younger!

Alfred took the silence in and curled his arm around Arthur's shoulder, bringing him closer to lean in on him. Arthur thought of fighting back, but was unable to as he felt the warmth of the other's body press onto his side. It was nice, he admitted.

"So, tell me about the place you used to live before here," Alfred said softly. "I wanna hear about it."

Arthur gave a meek shrug, sighing a little. "There's not much to tell," he replied.

Alfred gave a small shake. "'Course there must be! It's a home. There's loads to tell about a home! It's what creates a person."

So what would that make Arthur? He had been brought up sheltered, in a grand house, with everything he had ever wanted. But there had only been his father and him. It was empty, and some rooms he had never visited more than once in all his life. And now it was broken, with only him as the survivor. Was that supposed to be some sort of metaphor for his life, then and now? He shook his head slightly. Of course not. It was a building he had grown up in. It meant nothing more.

"It was nice," he began faintly, the image of said building returning to his mind. All the memories and the experiences invaded once more. He could almost feel the whipping wind and smell the newly cut grass once the gardener had finished. "It wasn't much, but I liked it. There were only my father and me after my mother passed away. We didn't have much, but we got by."

He felt bad lying to the American, but he couldn't push himself to tell him of what had really become of his home. Just thinking about it hurt him. And to admit that he had once been so tall in society, but was sent plummeting after a second's mistake, he just wasn't able to do that either. Pride, his damned pride, would not let him. To lie and say he had been from the bottom seemed to somehow protect that.

Almost hesitantly, Alfred asked, "What happened to your father?"

"He was sent away to fight. Where we came from, there weren't any other jobs, so joining the army seemed the only thing he could do. Once he left, I couldn't keep the house by myself, so I packed up and came here." Alfred cast him a sympathetic and worrying look, and Arthur felt his gut clench in guilt. He would apologise and admit later, but he could not take it back now.

"Oh. It must have been hard for you."

Harder than you know, Arthur thought. "Yes."

To still the silence that had been starting to grow, Alfred joked, "But hey, you sound proper posh for living poorly. I thought only the rich have an accent like you."

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. "Um, yes, well, my father always believed that first impressions were important. As much as employers say they don't judge on first impressions, they do, and accents make up for part of that. Out of someone with an accent like me and another with an accent so heavy you can barely understand, who would you employ?"

Alfred scratched his temple. "You, I'd guess. That's true." He gave the Englishman a nod and said, "Hey, your dad sound like an awesome dude to think ahead for you like that."

"Yes, he really was a bloody brilliant man." Arthur gripped the bottom of his top in a tight grip, sighing as he admitted, "Honestly, I've been thinking of joining him."

Alfred's head snapped towards him, his eyes wide and his mouth set into a deep frown. "What?"

"I've been thinking about it a lot. I hate this war. But what can I do to end it? Certainly not by just sitting here and complaining about it. I need to be out there, fighting – fighting with him."

"You're no fighter, Arthur," Alfred responded firmly.

"No, but I can learn. I'll fight if it means something to me and this means a lot. Besides, who are you to tell me I can't fight for my country?"

Alfred turned around and gripped Arthur's shoulders in a vice-like grip, not letting go even as Arthur complainedt. He stared intensely into Arthur's eyes, not allowing him to look away, not even for one single second. Slowly and deeply, he insisted, "Arthur, you don't know what it's like out there on the battle-field. You have no idea what it's like to fight in this war. And the enemy would pick you out because of that weakness. You'd be killed before you even knew what hit you."

"But-"

"No, you listen to me. I never fought before and they noticed that almost as soon as I landed in France. It was the hardest thing I've ever done – trying to gain the experience and the confidence, to put them off and to survive. If I hadn't fought against every instinct I had, I would be dead now. I did everything I could to stop being their target, and it took hella lot to do that. And they still got me, twice. I know a lot of people who weren't able to do that and they're all dead." He paused and then added, "I mean, I was a hero and I knew I could do it, but that's besides the point-"

Arthur lightly punched him in the stomach, then shook his head, tutting, "I knew you were just gloating."

Alfred took his chin and brought him to look at his face again. "Arthur, it really isn't the place for you. You wouldn't survive there. It's a place you have to give up every single fear you've ever had, or it's the end of you. It's hard to give up something you love, but it's harder to give up your fear."

Arthur took a deep breath, taken in by those eyes. There, he saw the fear Alfred had been talking about. Alfred had had to get rid of all of his fears – the fear that he would fail, the fear that the enemy would win, the fear his friends would die, and the fear that he would never return home. To get rid of all emotions, to discard terrors and nightmares so that if your fear became reality, it didn't take a hold of you like it would have before, and some of those had become reality.

But now there was a new fear, one that Alfred tried to convey through his gaze. He was scared that Arthur would be the one who wouldn't return. Arthur wondered why Alfred was scared of that when they hadn't known each other for long. But he concluded that the American was like that, that he feared for everyone's safety. As he knew first-hand what the war was like, he felt it was his duty to discourage naïve believers from going off and practically killing themselves.

Under those eyes, Arthur could only nod and swear, "Alright, I won't. I'll just look for a job. It was just a thought, anyway."

Alfred's smile returned, thankful and filled with relief. He gave an evident exhale of breath and let go of Arthur. "Good. Fighting is scary. Even my heroic courage had a difficult time!" He laughed.

Arthur turned his gaze on to the water again, trying to be rid of the frown that attempted to show upon his face. He couldn't even begin to think of what it was that had Alfred so shaken, of what he had seen in his time fighting. And to be shot twice after all his effort… it seemed unfair. But that was war, wasn't it? That was what Alfred was trying to say. The weakest were always the first to go, and as much as Arthur hated to acknowledge the fact that Alfred had practically called him that, he admitted he would have been weak in the face of the enemy. Not weak due to lack of strength, for he had taken many lessons in fighting and shooting in his time, for self-defence. But he would be weak to his emotions. When faced with all the enemies, his mind would be filled with rage over the loss of his home and father, and his rationality would be clouded with revenge. He'd really be the first to go.

He had heard the callers and the crowds in the village when the war had begun. They travelled from town to villages, asking for people to join in the fight, to bring honour back to their families and country. At first, many people join up, believing that it would not be a hard war to win. But when many didn't come back, as one by one they died off, or if they returned with missing limbs and tragic stories, the volunteers stopped flooding in. The harsh reality settled in, and Arthur had witnessed the tearing apart of mothers as they cried over their sons' graves, as siblings pushed the wheelchairs of their heroes who had no legs, or as friends waited to see each other, in full health and smiles as they remembered them to be, but returned with only silence.

The idea that he should join the army faded away as quickly as it had come. Witnessing it had been bad enough. But to be a part of it?

Alfred glanced down at the watch around his wrist. "It's gettin' late! Come on, we better get back!"

He tugged Arthur up on to his feet and rushed them back to the shelter, chattering happily about his own home, of his own family who waited for him back in America. Arthur listened carefully, taking in every detail. But soon his mind wandered as Alfred jumped to another topic, and he wondered what he'd have been like if he had known Alfred before. If he had received word that Alfred had been shot twice, how would he feel? Devastated, was the answer that came back to him. But thankful it hadn't been as bad as it could have been.

* * *

Arthur stood before a small book shop. He clutched at the material of his shirt tightly, drawing in the breath that he desperately needed. After the talk with Alfred a few nights before, he had decided to go looking for a job. After looking through newspapers, he had found and opening here, and instantly thought it sounded like one for him.

But now that he was here, he was nervous. He had never had a job before, he had no experience, he was new to the city and he had no idea how these things worked. Did he just go in there and ask for the job? Should he have brought something? Was there some sort of system for this? Oh, God, he didn't know.

Before he could collect himself, however, the door opened. A bell above rang. There stood a tall man, staring down at him as if waiting for Arthur to say something.

Deciding he had nothing to lose, Arthur stood straight and held his chin up. "Yes, hello," he greeted, chucking all of his nervousness away and adopting a strong, confident voice. "I'm here for the job opening."

The man gave him a glance that skimmed over his entire body, then nodded and said, "Fine, come in. I'll ask you questions and then I'll decide."

Arthur's shoulders sagged a little. "It's that easy?"

The man gave a small grin. "With our economy as it is at the moment, most people don't go looking for small jobs like this, they go for the big ones, or just go straight to the war. I haven't had many people who are interested." He stepped aside. "Now, you coming in or what?"

Arthur walked in behind him, slightly more confident than he had been. He was taken around to the other side of the shop, into the back where the beginning of the owner's house formed. Arthur sat down as ushered and was brought a steaming cup of tea, one that had his mouth watering immediately.

He took the cup almost reluctantly, as if it would break apart in his hands. At the other man's raised eyebrow, he explained, "I haven't had tea in a while. I have missed it." He sipped it and closed his eyes, savouring the taste.

Once he finished, the questioning commenced, beginning with small things, such as his name and what experiences he had in jobs before. Arthur gave each truthfully, admitting his full name and that he had no job before. If the other man recognised his name, he didn't show it, nor did he make any quip at his lack of experience. But as the questioning went on, it became more of a conversation than an interview, such as his favourite colour or fondest memory. Before he knew it, hours had gone by.

The owner stood up after looking at the clock above the table and said, "I think that will be all." He held out his hand and gave a one-sided grin. "I'll be happy to have you working here with me. There are two other workers and you'll get to meet them tomorrow, when you start work at seven am sharp."

Arthur gaped. "I have the job?" The owner chuckled and nodded his head. He took his hand and shook it quickly, repeating, "Thank you, thank you. I really needed this."

The owner clapped a hand onto his back. "You're welcome." He pushed Arthur to the door and bid, "Well, I'll see you tomorrow. I must get ready for the morn."

Arthur gave one more thanks and waved a goodbye before he dashed back towards the shelter, a smile playing feebly on his lips as he thought of telling Alfred the good news. He arrived at the door quickly, where the lights flickered on as dusk descended and evening crawled in. The homeless who had been standing outside rushed back in upon feeling the chill beginning to settle in. Arthur entered with them and immediately scanned for the American. He found him sitting in the corner, back in the seat he had first met him, with his feet up on the table. He had his eyes closed and he breathed lightly. Arthur wondered if he was asleep as he quietly made his way to him.

As he reached Alfred, the American instantly opened his eyes and sat up. He grinned as soon as he saw Arthur and motioned for him to sit down next to him.

Arthur decided to ignore his motions and sat opposite. Excitedly, he announced, "I managed to get the job I was looking at."

Alfred threw his arms up into the air, gasping. Before he gave any warning, he leaned over the table and wrapped Arthur in his arms, congratulating him. "I knew you would! The job was just made for you!"

Filled with happiness, Arthur allowed Alfred's arms to stay where they were. "Yes, I so hope. I can save up to move out of here now."

Alfred sat back and slapped the table, shaking his head. "You could have just moved in with me!"

Arthur crossed his arms. "You live here, in the same room as we all do."

Alfred shook away the statement. "But that's only while I recover. Once I'm all healed up again, I'm getting my own place here and you're welcome any time you want!"

"Won't you be going back to America? Back to your family?."

Alfred gave a shy smile and rubbed his arm. "Yeah, well, I kinda like this city. Kinda fell in love with it, ya know? I can stay here for a little while longer, at least until the end of the war of somethin'."

"Yes, it is a great city," Arthur agreed. "And thank you for your offer, but I really would like to get my own place. I'm alright to get along with for a few hours, but you'd be driven insane if you spent more than that with me." That was what his father always teased him about, anyway. It had always been told jokingly, but Arthur knew he was difficult to get along with.

"Nah, I'm sure I'd be able to handle you," Alfred laughed. He glanced over Arthur's shoulder and his eyes seemed to sparkle as soon as they fell on something. He stood up loudly, pushing the chair onto the floor in his haste, and he pulled Arthur with him as he paced to the kitchen. "Hey, it's free now!"

Arthur stared at Alfred through narrowed eyes, wondering if he had lost his mind. "The kitchen? Of course it's free. Dinner has already finished."

Alfred rolled his eyes, as if his thinking should have been the most obvious thing in the world. "I know that! I have an idea. It's too soon to sleep yet, and we need some way to celebrate your victory."

They stood in the middle of the dimply lit kitchen, where the newly cleaned tops shone and the sparkling utensils stood in their places. Alfred switched the lights on and they flickered to life. Some of the homeless people who strayed in the main dining hall glanced their way, but simply shook their heads with a smile as they saw Alfred, knowing it was better not to ask.

"I can come in here freely," Alfred said as he jumped about the room, taking the things he needed and placed them on the table in the middle. "So don't start complainin' and asking if we're allowed here." He turned and opened his arms, showing off the contents on the table. "So, let's make something! Anything you want to celebrate with."

Arthur's eyes widened, like a child's at a sweet shop. "Really?"

"Yeah! Seriously. End this awesome day with a bang!" He paused and added, "Well, hopefully not literally, but you know what I mean."

Arthur didn't need much time to think about what to make. He knew immediately, his mind falling on the one thing that he had loved to eat in his childhood. But it had been years since he had eaten it, and now he seemed to crave it as he looked at the bowls and spoons that rested on the table. "Um, could we possibly make Red Velvet Cake?"

Alfred blinked. "What's that?" But before Arthur could answer, he waved his hand and said, "Alright! I'll go ask the head cook if she has a recipe book with it in! Then we get to the mess." He grinned and ran off, only to return quickly with a pile of four thick recipe books in his arms. He placed them on the free part of the table. "She says they're in one of these, but doesn't remember which one. I bet it's going to be in the bottom on, so I'll take a look at that one first."

Arthur snorted and took the book from the top, leafing through it in search of the picture that would send his tongue to drool uncontrollably. Before long, he found it, in the second book he picked up. He gave it to Alfred, who grumbled something about it not being in one of the books he had picked up, and they set about to prepare.

The centre table was soon filled with everything listed on the page, from bowls to flour to icing. Alfred shoved an apron in his hands, insisting that he should wear it, despite the amount of times that Arthur complained that he would look stupid with such a colourful one, for it was obviously an apron for one of the female cooks as it was covered in flowers.

"Aw, but you look so adorable!"

Arthur grabbed the closest object, a wooden spoon, and whacked Alfred over the arm with it. "If you ever use that word again while I wear this, I'm taking it off and shoving it down your throat."

Alfred held his hands up in surrender but was unable to contain the laughter that pushed at his lips.

"Now, come on and let's make this monstrosity."

It began in a very civilised way, checking the recipe book and doing as it said. But as soon as the flour came into the mix, the childishness of their personalities made a show. Alfred chucked a hand full at Arthur as he was checking the measurements. In retaliation, Arthur threw an egg back, and it soon became a mess as predicted, with a game of hiding behind the table and a score system of points that were allocated to where a person was hit.

It took an hour to finally calm down, and by then the kitchen was white with the flour, as were Alfred and Arthur, and runny yolk slipped down their faces. With the eggs gone and the flour used up, they glanced down at the empty bowl.

"Well, I'll just go get more," Alfred muttered.

"Yes, and do make sure you don't throw it at me again."

"Hey, you better promise you don't make the first move!" As Alfred walked towards the storage room, he continued to glance over his shoulder at Arthur, as if the Englishman had hidden away an egg and was planning a surprise attack.

"I promise no such thing!" Arthur called back.

He picked up the bowl that was dusted with white and blew the flour away. The corner of his lip curled up and he couldn't help but give one small chuckle as he glanced down at himself. He had attempted to cook before, when he was young. He tried to help the cook of his house, but he had been terrible. Not just because of his age, but because of a 'natural ability to destroy the oven without much effort at all', as the cook had called it. It had been an interesting session indeed, resulting in one destroyed oven, countless broken utensils, burnt food and a re-painting of one wall of the kitchen. Arthur had enjoyed cooking while it had lasted, but feared going near the kitchen again for a while. The cook and his father had not been angry, but even they kept him at bay.

But this time, maybe he was going to be able to cook something without it turning into chaos with the help of Alfred. If the cake was going to taste anywhere near as good as it was fun to make it, it was possibly going to be the best thing he ever tasted.


End file.
